


The Waltz of Death

by CanaryWidow



Category: Degrassi, Degrassi the Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:23:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2836238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanaryWidow/pseuds/CanaryWidow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duke Tristan of Milligan accompanies his half-sister, Queen Maya of Matlin, to the royal court of Hollingsworth, where she is engaged to the King’s oldest son. The arranged marriage between the two has been renewed due to the incoming war with the kingdom of Rivas. Unfortunately, Queen Maya runs away to marry her one true love, forcing the King to send out search parties for her or find another worthy ally. During her absence, the duke and crown prince forge a friendship that might blossom into something more. Also known as that (sort of) Reign AU no one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arrival

           “I hate this.”

            He rolled his eyes. “This carriage, the situation, or the dress?” he questioned, leaning his head against the cool window.

            She crossed her arms. “It is all stupid,” she declared, crossing her arms like a petulant child.

            “Nice to know the Queen has a developed vocabulary,” Tristan snorted.

            Maya gasped. “You don’t have to be so mean about it.” Then, she narrowed her eyes. “Are you still mad because I told Mother about that gentleman I found snooping in your study?” Tristan bristled, and she continued, “What was his name? Grant—“

            “Enough,” his words cut through her like a sword. “It’s done.” He leaned back and stared outside at the retreating landscape with a lost look in his eyes.

            Maya opened her mouth to reply, but decided to leave Tristan to his thoughts. As she frowned and fiddled with the material of the dress, Tristan opened his satchel and began to read one of his favorite books, _1001 Arabian Nights_. He cracked open the worn cover and grinned; the book was a gift from his father he had received fifteen years ago (right before Maya’s birth). Sadly, the King died two weeks, leaving the fourteen day old infant the kingdom and a three year old Tristan the title of duke. Maya’s mother, Queen Margaret, was eager to exile Tristan’s mother, the King’s royal mistress, but his mother beat her to the punch and committed suicide. Queen Margaret took pity on a young Tristan and raised him alongside the future ruler of Matlin; she never failed to remind Tristan of this, often repeating the story in the presence of other nobles. Nevertheless, Tristan looked out for his younger sister throughout the years, and Queen Margaret ruled in her daughter’s place as regent until he discovered the deceased king had Maya engaged to the prince of Hollingsworth when she was just ten days old. While he tried to annul the agreement, his younger sister discovered Tristan’s lover, which happened to be their tutor, and reported the relationship. The Queen had his lover executed and forced him to watch, causing Tristan to fall mute for months. Maya attempted to apologize, but he never accepted her apology and allowed Maya’s arranged marriage to go through; hell, he even offered to escort her to the kingdom. He convinced himself it was the rightful payback, but he still felt that pang in his heart when he heard Maya crying at night.

            A hand landed on his trousers. “We’re here,” Maya whispered as the carriage bumped up the pathway that led directly to the castle. Even from afar, Tristan could see the hundreds of servants bustling around and was in awe of the castle’s beauty and power. The siblings rode in silence as the looming castle drew closer and closer. Finally, the carriage stopped, and shouts sounded outside. Tristan saw musicians and nobles gathering in two straight lines, glancing at the carriage nervously. The horseman knocked on the door, and Maya jumped.

            “Showtime,” Tristan sighed and gathered his things. He exited the carriage first, extending a hand for Maya to step down. As soon as she did, the crowd began clapping politely. _You would think they would be more excited about their future queen, Tristan thought, assessing the structured and cool people_.

            “Maya!” someone shouted, and the siblings turned their heads to find Maya’s ladies-in-waiting running towards them.

            “I thought they were back in Matlin,” Maya whispered excitedly to Tristan.

            Tristan shrugged. “I thought it would be fitting for you to have your ladies-in-waiting with you.”

            “Thank you,” she whispered sincerely, but Tristan ignored it.

            Lady Victoria Santamaria’s and Lady Grace Cardinal’s friendship with Maya dated back to the Third Degrassi War when Queen Margaret invited dozens of noble families onto her court. The three girls connected immediately, and Tristan himself formed a solid bond with Lady Victoria (or Lady Tori as she reminded him on their daily walks).

            The two ladies embraced Maya tightly, and Tristan stepped back and adapted a respectful stance.

            “Maya, this dress!” Lady Tori exclaimed, examining Maya’s frock with a bright smile.

            “…is terrible!” Lady Grace interjected with a frown, and Tristan stifled a chuckle. “Whoever made this needs to be executed!”

            Tristan leaned forward to whisper into her ear. “Not so loud, you might offend the King and Queen,” he hissed, and she quieted with an indignant expression in her eye.

            Maya nervously gathered the dark purple fabric around her and tinkered with her hair, causing Lady Tori to gasp.

            “Maya, your hair! Do you bother combing it?” Lady Tori unapologetically tugged at Maya’s tangled blonde locks.

            “Victoria!” Maya hissed, attempting to push her away.

            Lady Grace snorted. “Don’t resist, your Highness.”

            The trumpets sang a festive tune, and the two lines of aristocrats quieted as the castle’s front, grand doors opened. The King strolled out with his luxurious black cloak lined with gold trailing behind him and his crown high on his brow. Beside him was a tall and proud brunette in a black frock, lavish jewels, and a golden headband. They smiled secretly at each other.

            Lady Grace leaned towards Lady Tori. “Who is that?” she whispered loudly.

            “The King’s royal mistress, Lady Andrea,” Tristan answered as he stared at the two, wondering why his father couldn’t acknowledge his mistress like that.

            Lady Tori gasped. “And he just walked out with her? Like that?” No shame?” she shook her head.

            “Where’s the Queen?” Maya asked before the trumpets blared again, and a blonde woman exited the castle. She wore a reddish orange gown and a crown suited for a queen. She stepped in front of Lady Andrea and glanced at her scornfully.

            “That’s the Queen? I thought she would be…I don’t know, more imposing?”

            “You haven’t met her,” Tristan answered dryly. “Rule number one of royal courts: queens can be deceptive. I’ve learned that first hand.”

            Maya shifted uncomfortably. “Is that…”

            The four whirled around to see three brunettes exiting the castle. A tall male walked slightly in front of the young woman and man, indicating he was the oldest.

            “Yes,” Tristan swallowed harshly. God, he was more gorgeous than he thought. “That’s your future husband and future king, Prince Miles Hollingsworth III.”

“My god, he’s gorgeous,” Lady Tori remarked with a hand pressed dramatically to her chest.

Lady Grace studied him. “I’ve seen better,” she shrugged.

Lady Tori shushed her. “When are you to be married?” she asked excitedly.

“As soon as possible,” Maya answered solemnly.

The other prince and princess stopped in line with their mother, but Prince Miles continued walking towards them. Victoria nudged Maya slightly forward. “Go,” she urged. The blonde took a few tentative steps forward until she and the Prince were face-to-face. Tristan couldn’t hear what they were staying, but both Maya and the Prince were visually uncomfortable throughout the entire exchange. Finally, the Prince offered his hand, and she took it. The two strolled down the path, causing the nobles to clap for their future King and Queen.

Tori leaned into Tristan and clasped her hands together. “Aren’t they the cutest couple?” she cooed.

“Yeah,” he echoed, “the cutest.”

\--

            Tristan was surprised when the King called him to his study after dinner to talk. He heard the King was a very curt man with as much patience as Queen Margaret and dreaded the address.

            The page announced him and left Tristan in front of the King. The King didn’t bother standing or gesturing for Tristan to take a seat. He rolled up his map and leaned back in his chair. “We have a problem, Duke of Milligan.”

            Another reason Queen Margaret kept Tristan was because of Tristan’s natural diplomatic skills. Tristan placed his hands behind his back and addressed the disgruntled king. “Your Majesty, I haven’t a clue to what you are speaking of, but I’m glad to address the problem if you do first.”

            The King’s nostrils flared angrily. “Queen Maya isn’t cooperating to the marriage like the agreement clearly stated,” he forced out bitterly.

            Tristan laughed, and the King narrowed his eyes. He cleared his throat, “Well, for one, your son is as much as a problem as Queen Maya is. And two, give the two sometime to connect.”

            The King raised an eyebrow. “They’ve been engaged since they were infants.”

            “And haven’t seen each other since,” Tristan pointed out. “Unless the marriage needs to occur tomorrow, I suggest letting nature taking hold.”

            “Are you properly schooled in art of war? Strategies?” The King asked.

            Tristan held his chin high. “My father taught me as much as he could before he passed, but I continued my studies with his top generals. I am well aware of how Queen Zoe of Rivas seeks the control of Hollingsworth. But I’m also aware of how Queen Zoe courts war with Matlin. We are in this together, Your Majesty. I have as much to lose as you do. I suggest we start working as allies, not enemies.”

            The King was oddly calm. “You have a lot of your father in you,” he remarked.

            Tristan jerked, but quickly regained his composure. “Is that a good thing?”

            The King smirked. “You are dismissed.”

            Tristan spun and angrily exited the study, curses springing from his lips. Until he noticed a figure leaning against the wall.

            “You gave him hell,” the figure commented.

            “Who are you?” Tristan questioned, his hand instinctively moving towards the dagger he kept tucked into his waistband.

            The figure stepped into light. “I don’t think we’ve ever met,” Prince Miles drawled with a mischievous expression in his eye.

            Tristan sighed and glared at the younger boy. “Everyone knows you.”

            The Prince raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

            “Tales of your infamous parties have reached the Queen’s ears, I’m afraid.”

            Prince Miles studied him with a slight tilt of his head. “You’re the King’s bastard son, aren’t you?”

            His hand moved without any accord and slapped the Prince of Hollingsworth across the face. The Prince rubbed his jaw where a red bruise was slowly emerging. “Don’t call me a bastard,” Tristan said before leaving.

\--

            “So, I might have slapped the Prince,” Tristan stated casually.

            Lady Tori almost fell off of her horse. “WHAT?!” she shouted, grabbing her horse’s reins. Her beautiful curls whipped around her face. “Why? When? Tell me everything!”

            “He called me the King’s bastard, and I-I wasn’t thinking. I was tired from the travel, and his father implied the same thing—“

            “His father? What did the King say to you?”

            Tristan sighed, feeling a headache coming on. “He basically threatened me into getting Maya to show some love for Prince Miles.”

            “Even though they just met?”

            “Exactly. See, this is why you’re my favorite companion.”

            The two rode in comfortable silence until the air swelled with tension. “How are you?” she asked as her voice took on a more vulnerable tone.

            Tristan’s hold on the reign tightened, and he cleared his throat. “I’m fine,” he faked a smile.

            Tori frowned. “No, I mean, _how_ are you? About Grant?”

            Tristan stopped his horse and faced Tori as a few tears slipped from his eyes. “It’s getting better,” he admitted.

            “What about the nightmares?” Tori asked, gesturing towards the dark circles under his eyes.

            “I still have them,” Tristan responded truthfully.

            Lady Tori opened her mouth to inflict some of her wisdom before their ears detected the familiar sound of hooves behind them. They turned to see a beautiful stallion racing towards them with a familiar figure on its’ back. “Tristan, isn’t that—“

            “The Prince,” Tristan gritted his teeth before digging his heels into his horse and bolting away.

            Lady Tori watched as Tristan charged into the woods and the Prince followed. Something wet landed on her face, and she glanced up at the dark, rumbling clouds. “A storm is coming.”

\--

            “TRISTAN!” The Prince called, but Tristan kept riding as rain pelted them. Owen, his favorite steed, was growing nervous as the sky shook. Tristan nuzzled his snout and shouted over the howling wind, “WE’RE ALMOST THERE!” When they first arrived, he remembered seeing a path that led straight out of the woods and into the castle. With luck, he would find it before it was too late. A mixture of pride and anger prevented him from asking the Prince.

            Suddenly, a figure emerged from the trees and leaped out at Tristan. Tristan saw the evil glint of steel slicing through the air towards him the same time a loud crack of lightning sounded, startling Owen and causing him to throw Tristan from his back. The knife sailing for Tristan’s head planted itself in the tree. As Owen ran off, Tristan landed on the forest floor. His shoulder screamed in pain, and he almost passed out from the pain. After lying on the ground for what felt like hours, someone lifted him wordlessly onto something large and warm. He groaned in protest, thinking it was the assassin, but the same person whispered, “Shh, just sleep.”

            And finally, he did just that.

\--

            He remembered that day vividly. Fog rolled over the hills of Matlin as the royal court journeyed to the courtyard. Tristan wore all black and shielded his eyes even though no one knew of the situation, save for Victoria, Maya, and Queen Margaret. The executioner was Sir Simpson, a tall and balding man past his prime. But he still wielded the sword with grace and precision; that was why Queen Margaret requested him. There would be no mistakes or fumbles—just a quick stab through Tristan’s heart.

            Grant was brought out in front of the court, and Queen Margaret charged him with treason, which Tristan thought was a false accusation. Grant loved his country more than anything…but in the end, the evidence proved him wrong.

            As the guards shackled him to the platform, Grant caught Tristan’s eye. His eyes were a storm of emotions: accusatory, cold, betrayed, pleading, and hopeless. Tristan mouthed, “I’m sorry.” Then, he closed his eyes and awaited the all-too-familiar sound of the sword swinging through the air and taking another life.

            _Swish_! Tristan almost cried out in pain and kept his eyes shut until something nudged his boot. He peeked downwards and nearly shouted: it was Grant’s head, and he was still staring at him.

\--

            Tristan sat up with a shout, and a hand gently set itself on his chest. “Tristan, calm down.”

            Tristan listened and slumped against the bed, studying his surroundings. Tori sat at the edge of his bed with a wet towel in her hand. The candles in the room lit up the contours of Tori’s face. “Where am I?”

            “You’re in the infirmary, and you dislocated your shoulder after Owen threw you from his back,” she gestured to the sling around Tristan’s shoulder. She smiled wobbly, tears threatening to escape. “No more horseback rides in the woods for you.”

            He winced in pain as he adjusted his arm. “Who brought me here?” he asked.

            Tori opened her mouth to reply when the knock at the door sounded. “Come in,” she answered, sitting up.

            To his surprise, the King’s page, Drew, entered the dimmed room. “My Lady, can the Duke and I have a moment alone?” he asked, but his tone suggested he wasn’t asking.

            “Of course,” Tori bowed her head and exited the room.

            “What is wrong?” asked Tristan.

            Drew faced Tristan with a grim expression. “It appears that the Queen of Matlin is gone.”

            “What?!” Tristan sat up quickly and ignored the pain in his shoulder. “How? Was she kidnapped?”

            “No, sir, I’m afraid she ran away. She left you this message.” Drew handed Tristan an opened letter. Tristan raised an eyebrow.

            The page mirrored his expression. “Sorry your personal letter was opened, but under the circumstances…well, you know.”

            Tristan read the message and rubbed his unoccupied hand over his face. “She ran away to marry her true love,” he stated, frustrated. His head pounded, not only from the fall but the impending work he would have to deal with.

            “The King would like to see you,” Drew spoke up again. “Now,” he added after seeing Tristan’s expression.

            Yellow light caught Tristan’s eye, and he turned to face a window beside his bed. At least a dozen men on horseback streamed out of the castle, carrying torches. “Search parties or assassins?” he asked, remembering the mysterious figure in the forest.

            Drew hesitated. “I’m not at liberty to say, sir. The King wants to see you now.”

            Tristan ignored the page and shook, not with anger but something completely different. “Did the King put a bounty on my sister’s head?” he questioned.

            “The King wants to see you now,” Drew repeated, but this time, the page had his hand on his waistband where Tristan could see the outline of his dagger.

            It was then that Tristan realized he wasn’t safe in the court of Hollingsworth.

 


	2. Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions brew in the court of Hollingsworth.

            “I assure you, Your Majesty. Queen Maya is out there—“

            A hand slammed on the table. “She doesn’t deserve that title,” the King snarled. “Hell, I ought to have her executed for treason.” He eyed Tristan. “You, too.”

            Tristan managed not to flinch before continuing. “Technically, she wasn’t legally this country’s. She was of Matlin and still is until the people of Matlin say so. And I was _never_ apart of Hollingsworth—nor will I ever.”

            The King leaned forward. “Don’t try and trick me, boy.” His eyes glinted dangerously. “I have eyes and ears everywhere, and guess what? The people of Matlin don’t want Maya as their queen anymore. Matlin is without a monarch.”

            Tristan raised his chin defiantly. “There’s Queen Margaret and Princess Katie.”

            The King laughed harshly. “Princess Katie is married off and already has a crown of her own, and I heard the lovely Queen has the plague. And there’s no way in hell you will be legitimized. Face it, boy, Matlin is done.” The King subconsciously stroked his crown. “Hmm, maybe I will merge Matlin and Hollingsworth to form my own empire,” he mused.

            “That will never happen, Your Majesty,” Tristan stated calmly. “Now, the search parties—“

            The King held up a hand to interrupt him. “I will keep the search parties for another month, but understand; if they don’t find her, we have no choice, but to dissolve the agreement and search for another worthy ally.”

            Tristan nodded. “That is fair, Your Majesty.” He bowed cordially and turned to exit.

            The King cleared his throat, causing Tristan to turn and face him with a questionable expression. “One more thing: do you know why my son is patrolling your chambers constantly?”

            The tips of Tristan’s ears burned red. “I haven’t the slightest clue,” he responded before exiting the study.

\--

            “I swear, he looked like he was in trance,” Lady Tori regaled, sipping delicately at her tea. “He was too pale, like he had seen something that scared him. And he shook too; the healers practically had to pry you from his arms.”

            “Wait, he was carrying me?” Tristan raised an eyebrow. “How did the Prince manage to carry a man three or four years his senior?”

            She shrugged. “I don’t know, but he didn’t let go of you until he collapsed from exhaustion.”

            “How long was I out for?”

            “24 hours. And here comes the interesting part—he insisted a guard stays at the infirmary door until he was well enough to do it himself.”

            Tristan didn’t say a word as he absorbed the information.

            “What I do not understand is why, considering you slapped him just hours prior.” Lady Victoria glanced at him. “Do you know something I do not?”

            Tristan ignored her question and stood. “I should go; I have to write a letter to Queen Margaret,” he lied, but Lady Tori looked like she did not believe him for a minute, which was the only downside to having her as a companion.

            She set her cup down delicately. “Fine, have fun writing your letter to Queen Margaret,” Lady Tori replied, bringing the cup back up to her mouth. Tristan began to walk away when she whispered, “And say hello to Prince Miles for me, too.”

            “I heard that.”

            “You were meant to.”

\--

            Tristan didn’t bother sending for page and settled for knocking on the door of the Prince’s chambers. He waited five seconds before the brunet answered the door, dressed in typical prince wear: trousers made from the finest quality, a white satin doublet, a black jerkin, and leather riding boots. Tristan’s words caught in his throat; luckily, the Prince beat him to the punch.

            “Tristan,” he addressed him with a slight smile, “how is your shoulder?” he questioned, stepping aside to allow access into his chambers. Tristan stepped in, quickly assessing his usage of colors and maps to brighten up his otherwise drab chambers.

            “Better,” Tristan’s voice sounded hollow like the tree he and Maya used to climb when they were children. “How is your face?” asked Tristan.

            The Prince chuckled and rubbed his jaw. “A bit bruised, but I will survive. You, on the other hand, were almost assassinated two nights ago.”

            Tristan fiddled with his sling. “And you did not tell your father,” he stated, his tone neither accusing nor pleasing.

Miles snorted. “Of course not; a part of me believes he was the one behind the attack.”

            Tristan glanced at him, surprised. “Your father? Why?”

            Miles gestured for Tristan to take a seat in one of his gilded chairs while he stood by his window and stared outside. “My father hated you when you were trying to annul the agreement because you had a massive chance at winning. But when you suddenly dropped it, he became suspicious and thought you would switch sides again.” He paused. “He considers you a loose end,” he added after a beat.

“Do you have any solid proof?”

            Miles shrugged. “Other than the whispers you hear in the castle, no.”

            Remembering, Tristan snapped his fingers. “What about the knife in the forest?”

            Miles considered this for a moment before a grin broke out across his face. “You know, no one else has been out there.” He grabbed his cloak from a nearby stand and headed towards his door, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll head out there!”

            Tristan whistled lowly and stood up as well. “ _We’ll_ head out there,” he corrected the Prince.

            Miles paused with his hand on the doorknob and shook his head. “No, I can’t let you go out there. It’s too dangerous; what if the assassin is still there?” he argued.

            Tristan narrowed his eyes. “So, I’m just supposed to let the Crown Prince of Hollingsworth go into the forest alone?”

            “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he remarked, turning his back on Tristan once more.

            “You’re the crown prince,” Tristan called after him.

            The Prince whirled around, the anger evident on his face. “Will you stop saying that?” Miles shouted. “Everyone calls me that like it’s some kind of honor. It’s not--the constant pressure of trying to live up to my father’s standards is eating me alive. Crown prince,” he chuckled without humor, “what a death sentence.” His eyes opened wide as if he just realized something. His hand shook as he ran it through his longish locks. “The life I’m going to inherit from my father is a death sentence. I’m going to have to do everything he does: flaunt my mistress while my wife has an affair with my page, deal dark tricks, and execute innocents. And that’s just the beginning.” He grew quieter until his voice was nothing more than a whisper. “That is not the life I want, but it is not like I have a choice because I am the fucking crown prince.” With that, Miles stormed out of his chambers, slamming the door behind him.

            Tristan stood there in shock for a few moments while the meaning behind Miles’ words collected around him. He shook his head and followed after the boy.

\--

            “Miles!” He shouted, allowing his long legs to carry him towards the Prince. The Prince ignored him and continued heading towards the woods. He used his good arm to grip Miles’ shoulder and turn him around. “Miles,” he breathed, not realizing how close they were and how wide Miles’ eyes were.

            “Look, I apologize for my actions back in my chambers,” Miles started, attempting to break Tristan’s iron-tight grip on his shoulder.

Tristan adopted a sincere expression. “I know how you feel,” he whispered. “About being a crown prince.”

            “I mean no harm,” Miles started, pointing to the bruise on his jaw in remembrance, “but how would you?”

            Tristan dropped his grip on the Prince’s shoulder and gestured for them to continue walking. “When I was three, my mother tried to get me legitimized, so I could have a stake to the throne. And I actually had a decent chance because it was believed Queen Margaret was infertile. But my father took my mother and me aside one day and told us of the horrors he endured when he was the crown prince. Even though I was three and didn’t understand half of what he was saying, my mother thankfully did and put an end to the process.” He smiled wistfully. “During my childhood, I had a lot more freedom than Maya did. I was able to travel, climb trees—though, Maya did that as well—and experiment with other cultures. I still learned the required royal talents: archery, fencing, strategies, horseback riding, public speaking, and more. But I had the freedom to learn more...entertaining talents,” Tristan finished with a slight smirk.

            “Like what?” Miles couldn’t help but ask curiously.

            “Singing and acting,” Tristan supplied proudly. “Though I do not have many incidents to show them off, I did at the young Princess Katie’s wedding, and people are still talking about it.”

            “Will you sing for us?” The Prince asked hopefully. “Perhaps after dinner?”

            Tristan kicked at some dirt. “I don’t think I’m welcomed anymore in this court,” he admitted.

            Miles stopped. “Nonsense!”

            “Your father’s page made it very clear,” Tristan said.

            Miles rolled his eyes. “Drew? He practically bends over backwards to do my father’s bidding. Don’t take him seriously,” he advised.

            Tristan raised an eyebrow. “If I don’t, I die. You said you suspect your father was behind the failed assassination plot.”

            Miles considered this. “But he is not stupid enough to kill you when I’m nearby.”

            “But what will happen when your proximity to me is compromised? I can fend off a few men, but I doubt the King will only send a few measly men to kill someone he considers a loose thread. He will bring in the best of the best.”

            Miles stopped walking though Tristan continued. “Then we better find some proof,” he said, determined.

            “Have you thought about the consequences?”

            “What consequences? Against finding evidence against my father?” When Tristan nodded, Miles faced him with a confident expression. “Tristan, tell me of an instance when a king was arrested.”

            Tristan hesitated. “I don’t know of any, but you can’t arrest the King of Hollingsworth!” he argued.

            Miles smirked. “Watch me.” And he marched straight into the belly of the woods.

\--

            Tristan ultimately decided to stay behind per the Prince’s advice after discovering his uncanny fear of the woods: every time he neared the woods, he would feel the urge to vomit, and his hands shook like one of those beggars in Matlin. Still, his irrational fear did not keep him from worrying about the Prince’s safety, and he paced nervously until he saw the brunet exit the woods with a frown on his chiseled features.

            “No knife,” he huffed, kicking a tree stump with his leather boots. “No knife, no tracks, nothing!” He threw his hands up. “It is as if the assassin vanished into thin air!”

            “I told you—that assassin was the best of the best,” Tristan stated as the two wandered along the outskirts of the woods. “It’s a miracle I survived.”

            “But there had to be something!” The Prince exclaimed angrily. “We can’t let him get away with this.”

            “We’re not completely sure it was even the King,” Tristan assessed. “Try and keep a cool head,” he advised the Prince.

            Miles ignored him and reached for the dagger he kept on his belt. “How can I when an assassin is running around trying to kill you?” Miles twisted his dagger skillfully between his digits. His nostrils flared angrily, and Tristan noted how much he resembled the King before he stopped walking, lost in his thoughts.

            Miles noticed this. “What?”

            “Why do you care so much?” Tristan asked. “I’m not even a subject of Hollingsworth nor have I proven my loyalty to this court or Hollingsworth itself. So, I ask again: why do you care about me so much?”

            Miles tucked his dagger away and set both of his warm hands on Tristan’s shoulder. “Because I do,” he answered simply.

\--

            Tristan closed his journal with a sigh. “Damn,” he cursed quietly before gathering the journal and some documents on his desk. He pushed his chair back and wandered over to the hearth. Without any hesitation, he threw the papers in and watched emotionlessly as the papers curled up and blackened against their will. He walked around his chambers and blew out most of the candles, nearly plunging the chambers into pitch black. The hearth died, and Tristan pulled back the heavy duvet of his bed. The faint light combined with Tristan’s fatigue almost caused Tristan to eagerly jump into his bed. Until he saw something creeping around the satin sheets. He stepped back with a gasp as the head of a snake popped out of the sheets. He recognized the diamond shape on its’ back: poisonous and as deadly as an executioner’s sword.

            “HELP!” he shouted, running towards his door as if the snake was drawing closer. As soon as he burst out of his chambers, the Prince along with three guards ran down the hallway, swords in hands.

            “Tristan, what’s wrong?” the Prince asked, sending the guards into the chambers.

            The words could not escape from Tristan’s mouth even if he took massive gulps of air. “Snake,” he managed, “in my bed.” One of the guards shouted somewhere within Tristan’s chambers, and Tristan’s eyes widened.

            “Tristan—“

            He avoided the Prince’s grasp and reentered his chambers to find a guard lifeless on the guard. Two of the guards were narrowly avoiding the poisonous snake’s vicious bite. Filled with fury, Tristan used his good arm and grabbed a dagger from his nearby desk. He flung it at the snake, and the dagger cut the snake’s head clean off.

            The guards glanced up, startled. “Sir, if you can do that,” one of them stared at him with amazement in his eyes, “why do you need us?”

            Tristan ignored the guards and turned to face the worried Prince. “We need to talk,” he mouthed.

            The Prince nodded before reverting back to his princely duties. “Gentlemen,” he clapped, capturing the guards’ attention. “It seems the Duke does not need our services anymore.”

            The guards gaped. “But sir, that was a—“

            A borderline dangerous expression danced in his eyes. “I am not going to ask again, gentlemen.” He tilted his head towards the commotion coming from the hallway. “One of you needs to calm the crowd. The other should go and inform my father. _Now_ ,” he commanded.

            The two guards showed no hesitation and rushed to obey their prince and future king.

            Miles wanted until the guards were out of earshot before he spoke again. “Another assassination attempt,” he stated angrily.

            “Someone really wants me dead,” Tristan concluded. His eyes deliberately avoided the snake’s and the guard’s corpses.

            Miles put a hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “We should get out of here,” his eyes found the snake’s corpse. “I read a dead snake’s blood is just as deadly as the poison.”

            Tristan couldn’t feel his legs moving, but somehow, he followed Miles through the castle’s dark halls to the Prince’s own chambers. Once there, the Prince gestured to his page.

            As the page scurried off, Tristan felt his mouth move. “What did you tell him?”

            Miles opened his door. “To get our horses,” he replied curtly. “We’re going away. Tonight.” Miles began to gather articles of clothing and other supplies.

            “Why?” asked Tristan, still in shock.

            Miles stopped and faced him with a bewildered expression. “You said it yourself: someone really wants you dead. I intend to find out whom and have them beheaded.”

            “Do you have a plan?”

            “No one knows we are leaving except for five of my most trusted guards and the assassin.” Miles’ eyes swept around his chambers as if the assassin was behind a curtain, listening. “The guards will watch the perimeters for people leaving and will follow anyone that does.”

            “We are decoys,” Tristan realized. He had to hand it to the Prince; he was not a bad strategist.

            “Exactly,” he said and resumed packing.

            Tristan nodded. “Where are we going?”

Miles looked at Tristan from over his shoulder and grinned. “My country house.”

\--

“I do not understand; I thought the Hollingsworth’s country house was in Toronto.” Tristan winced as the carriage hit yet other rough bump. To avoid the entire castle knowing about their departure, Miles instructed the carriage driver to take the old roads behind the castle; the roads were called _old_ for a reason.

“It is, but mine is in Ontario,” Miles replied breezily. He tried to seem cool and calm for Tristan’s sake, but Tristan noticed his tense shoulders. “My grandmother had it built for me just before she died. She wanted me to use it in tough situations. And I think this constitutes.”

Tristan leaned back. “Won’t it be…odd if you and I disappear for a few days?”

“Weeks, not days,” he corrected, and color drained from Tristan’s face. Miles shrugged. “My parents are used to me leaving sporadically. As for your disappearance, they will just think you needed to get out of the castle in the midst of the snake attack. My father might actually let his guard slip.”

Tristan hummed in agreement, and the two continued on in comfortable silence for an hour until Miles asked, “Will you sing for me?”

Tristan’s head snapped towards the Prince, whom was watching him with hopeful eyes. “What?” he asked, not sure he heard right.

The smile slipped off of his face, and he mumbled, “Forget I asked.”

Tristan reached across the confined quarters of the carriage and patted the Prince’s hand. “I will,” he answered, not breaking their gaze.

Miles’ face flushed red, and he pulled at the collar of his tightly buttoned shirt. “Is it hot in here?” he murmured, mostly to himself before quietening to hear Tristan sing.

Tristan cleared his throat before the first note escaped his mouth; he had chosen to sing a lullaby his grandmother had sung to him during one of her rare visits to the castle. As the lullaby went on, Miles began to look at him like…like he was the only person in the world. Miles listened with an awed expression; Tristan’s voice was not only beautiful, but haunting as if he was singing a legendary poem, not a lullaby intended for children’s ears. The lullaby lasted for what felt like hours, and the final note was just a dying sound on Tristan’s lips.

            Tristan looked up at him through his dark eyelashes. “Any thoughts?”

“Beautiful,” was all the Prince could manage at first. “What language is that? I don’t recognize it from any of Matlin’s official languages.”

            “It’s an old dialect my grandmother taught me,” Tristan informed. “Most people don’t even know it exists. My grandmother told me it existed before Matlin itself did.”

            “Fascinating; you must teach me.”

            Tristan blushed. “Of course.”

\--

            The travel took eleven long days, and the men didn’t reach the country house until the sun was rising on the twelfth day. The Prince’s country house was a small, cozy, and beautiful one-story cottage in the middle of nowhere.

            “There’s a creek nearby to bathe in,” Miles mentioned, noting their traveled-in conditions. “And I can go into town to get food, if you wish,” he added after opening the cabinets and finding there was a severe lack of food. “Or clothes,” he blushed in embarrassment, remembering Tristan didn’t have enough time to pack.

            Tristan blushed at the Prince’s attention. “I’m fine,” he informed the Prince. He winced after seeing his reflection in a mirror. “Though, I might have to take you up on that offer about the bath.”

            The Prince’s laugh almost made Tristan forget about the last couple of days. The Prince moved towards the back door and pointed towards a trail that led out of the backyard. “See that trail?” Tristan nodded. “That leads directly to the creek.” Then the thought of the assassin crossed Tristan’s mind, and he must have portrayed it on his face because Miles frowned and rushed to remedy. “I’m not aware anyone knows where the creek is, but if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll go—“

            Tristan blushed at the idea of washing himself while the Prince stood mere feet away, watching. “No, I trust the creek is secure.”

            Miles hesitated. “Are you sure?”

            Tristan nodded and gathered some Castile soap Miles must have packed before darting out of the cottage as fast as he could. He found the creek soon enough and eagerly discarded his trousers, doublet, jerkin, and shoes. He also discarded the sling after discovering his shoulder had mostly healed during the long journey. He jumped in happily and realized how much he missed swimming; he hadn’t swum since he was a mere child. His long limbs skimmed the surface as he bobbed and weaved through the clear blue waves. After expelling all of the dirt from his body, Tristan reached to wash out his clothes when a twig snapped behind him. Tristan grabbed the dagger from his belt. “Who’s there?” he asked in a loud, fearless voice even though his heart was racing like Owen’s during a race.

            The bushes rustled more, and his grip on the knife tightened, not caring if blood sprouted from the cut on his hand. “Who is there?” he demanded again.

            Seconds later, Miles emerged from the bushes with an apologetic expression on his face. “Sorry, I just wanted to make sure you were safe.”

            Tristan sighed in relief, but glared at the Prince. “You almost ended up with a knife in your leg,” he remarked.

            The Prince’s eyes scanned Tristan’s not completely submerged body. “It would have been worth it,” he smirked.

            Tristan, suddenly conscious of his body, ducked underwater and wondered how long he could hold his breath for: ten minutes, perhaps? He must have been underwater for at least a minute when he felt the water push around him. Without thinking, he whirled around to find the Prince underwear and without a stitch on.

            He broke the surface of the creek and gasped for air. The Prince reemerged behind him, smiling. He pushed the Prince’s chest, pretending not to notice the scars and scratches on his warm body.

            “What are you doing?” he shouted, looking everywhere but at the Prince. He sank deeper and deeper until only his face remained above water.

            Miles raised an eyebrow innocently. “Taking a bath; is there a problem?”

            “Is there a problem—yes, there’s a problem! We’re both naked, and I just hope you can’t see anything!” Tristan gestured to their bodies underwater.

“Oh, I can see everything,” Miles replied with a chuckle. “The water is very _clear_.” And Miles swam away and kicked water into Tristan’s shocked face. As soon as he got over his initial shock, Tristan noticed Miles too swam with a grace privy only to royalty. He also noticed how fit the Prince’s body was—

“Tristan,” Miles called, snapping the Duke out of his less-than-appropriate thoughts. “Can you hand me my clothes?”

Without a word, Tristan handled the Prince his clothes, blushing slightly. “Snap out of it, you twat; if things go as planned, that’s your future brother-in-law,” he whispered furiously to himself.

“Did you say something?” Miles asked a few feet away where he was washing out his clothes with a surprising level of skill.

Tristan was now blushing furiously. “No, Your Highness,” he blurted.

Miles frowned. “There are no titles here, Tristan,” he reminded him. “I’m not a prince, and you’re not a duke. We are just…companions stopping by a cottage we stumbled upon to rest.”

Tristan eyed the Prince’s figure once more. “Yeah, companions,” he echoed.

\--

            Tristan lost count of days they spent at the country house because of the close friendship they were forming; the boys exchanged stories about neighboring royalty and taught each other various fighting techniques and languages. One afternoon, they sat across from each other with bread in their laps and scraps of paper in front of them.

            Tristan pointed to a phrase from the scrap of paper. “Repeat after me,” he instructed before a string of foreign syllables left his mouth. Miles attempted to repeat, but ended up failing. Tristan pointed to the exact syllable Miles messed up on. “You’re not rolling your tongue.”

            “I’m trying,” Miles whined, and Tristan stifled a laugh.

            “Try sticking your tongue to your teeth,” Tristan offered.

            “Like this?”

            Tristan reached forward and adjusted Miles’ strong jaw. Then, he realized how stunning the other man’s eyes were. “There,” he breathed across Miles’ lips.

            Miles continued to stare at him with something in his eyes—not lust or affection, but something completely different. Miles didn’t move (nor did Tristan) and repeated the phrase slowly.

            “Perfect,” Tristan whispered. Although he did not want to, Tristan moved back, missing Miles’ disappointed expression. “I think we’re done for today.”

            In silence, they watched the sun begin to dip beneath the horizon. Miles broke the silence (like he had done numerous of times before). “I’ve never done this before.”

            “What, learn a new language?” Tristan questioned, surprised.

            “No, learn it the way you are teaching me. I have never had a tutor because my father thought getting help from anyone was a sign of weakness. Usually, my father would lock me into my chambers and told me I had two weeks to learn the language.”

            “What if you didn’t?” He had a feeling he already knew the answer.

            Miles’ eyes closed. “You probably saw them when we were swimming.”

            “Saw what, Miles?” Tristan already knew but wanted to hear him say it to his face.

            “…my father was always overzealous with his swords,” said Miles. “I was his favorite toy. If I didn’t live up to his standards, he would...” he swallowed, “maim me. Leave ugly scars where no one could see.”

            “Oh, Miles,” he whispered.

            “I wish I didn’t need your sympathies,” Miles looked away.

            “Don’t think of them as sympathies. I am truly sorry for what your father did to you, and this encourages me to prove he is the one behind the assassination plot. If he is arrested and killed, then he can’t hurt you anymore.”

            Miles turned his way. “Like you said earlier, the King can’t get arrested.”

            Tristan took a deep breath. “I lied.” Ignoring Miles’ betrayed expression, he explained. “During my years as Prince Campbell’s companion, I obtained documents and recorded notes in my journal from other travelers about their cultures and rulers. I learned of instances where kings were thrown off of their own thrones after being found guilty of any charge. On night of the second assassination attempt, I burned my traveling journal and the documents in case someone stumbled amongst them.”

            “Or if all else fails, I can declare him unfit to be a ruler and take the crown,” Miles mused.

            “A very shaky second opinion, but what other opinion do we have?” Tristan took Miles’ hand. “Even if he wasn’t the one that tried to kill me, he will not get away with abusing you and will be stripped of the crown.”

            Miles squeezed his hand. “I trust you.”

\--

            Two nights later, the door to Miles’ chambers slowly creaked open, causing the brunet to stir slightly but remain asleep. A male figure slipped through the crack of the door, and his silent footsteps drew him closer and closer to the bed where the Prince of Hollingsworth slept. He stood over the Prince, watching him like a predator.

            Suddenly, Miles’ eyes burst open; he screamed, and his eyes were wide in identification.

            “MILES!”

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was blown away at the immediate response to this fic. Thanks for the kudos and comments.


	3. Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News about war force the Duke and Prince to travel back to Hollingsworth.

The figure lifted his hood.

“Winston?” Disbelief filled his tone, and he rubbed his eyes to reassure himself; he scrambled out of bed, still in shock.

His best friend grinned before they embraced. Seconds later, Tristan burst through the door, armed with a sword. Winston held his hands up in surrender when Tristan pointed the sword at him.

“Who are you? And what are you doing here?” Tristan asked, edging the tip of the blade closer and closer to Winston’s jugular.

Miles situated himself in front of Winston. “No, Tristan, he is not who you think he is; this is Prince Winston of Chu, my oldest friend.”

Winston playfully bowed. “At your service, sir,” he smirked.

Tristan lowered his sword and bowed. “Your Highness,” he acknowledged. “But I do have to ask: why are you here?”

Miles moved next to Tristan and folded his arms behind his back. “I have the exact same question.”

Prince Winston rocked on the heels of his riding boots. “Your parents hired me—well, more like forced me—to track you down. After searching the party towns and coming up empty-handed, I remembered this country house.” He paused dramatically. “Miles, you need to return to court,” he stated.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Miles stated, glancing nervously at Tristan.

Prince Winston raised an eyebrow. “Haven’t you heard? Rivas has your borders surrounded: war is coming.”

“What about Matlin?” Tristan spoke up, fear creeping into his voice.

“Rivas still has your borders surrounded, but now, they have made an alliance with Novak,” he informed with a grimace. “Novak warships have arrived in your bay.”

Tristan’s eyes lit up. “Novak? After we came to their aid during the Third Degrassi War? How dare they!”

Miles set a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Well, King Zigmund isn’t known for his manners.”

Winston looked between the two, and a puzzled expression appeared on his face. He looked like he wanted to ask more, but ultimately, he decided against it. “We should get back to Hollingsworth,” he stated. “The sooner the better,” he added after seeing Miles’ expression.

“He’s right,” Tristan spoke up. “When do we leave?”

“How about now?” Winston suggested, completely missing the disappointed expression on the Prince’s face.

\--

“Miles.”

The Prince ignored him and adjusted his saddle on the horse.

“Miles,” he attempted again and set his hand on the young Prince’s shoulder.

Miles swatted Tristan’s hand away and whirled around, fury evident on his features. “I thought we were in this together.”

Tristan tilted his head, confused. “We are,” he confirmed. “Unless you are not telling me everything.”

“Telling _me_ everything? You are the person that made the decision to go back to court without asking me!”

Tristan stepped back. “I’m sorry; I truly thought I was doing the best for us.”

Miles snorted. “You thought wrong,” he muttered, mounting his steed; he grabbed his reins and rode off to join Winston on the country road.

\--

The sun’s last rays danced across the countryside, and the Prince moved to light a lantern.

“No,” Winston called. “I know someone that lives just up the road.”

“Winston, we don’t have time to stop,” Miles said, exasperated. Tristan assumed his grouchy mood was due to their earlier fight.

Winston paused. “I looked for you for a month—a month spent on dusty country roads, sleeping in inns made for drunken soldiers and commoners. _We_ are stopping for one night,” he stressed, glaring at Miles.

Tristan stifled a chuckle. “He’s right, Miles,” he spoke up, staring at the Prince’s back.

Miles’ shoulders tensed. “Fine,” he muttered and dug his heels into his horse’s ribs, riding off in a cloud of dust.

Winston’s head snapped to meet Tristan’s eyes. “Do you know what is bothering him?” he asked, stalling his horse.

“I haven’t the slightest clue,” Tristan lied before breaking out into a gallop to catch up to the Prince.

\--

“Where is this damn friend of yours, Chewy?” Miles asked, glaring at Winston as the trio ventured further up the road as the sky darkened, and the moon winked at them.

“Just a little bit further, I promise,” the other Prince assured with a shaky voice.

“You said that a few leagues ago,” Tristan stated.

Winston fiddled with his satchel. “Let me consult my map,” he said as he veered off of the country path. He dismounted his steed and squinted at the map.

Miles and Tristan chose not to dismount and silently observed Prince Winston. Tristan surreptitiously glanced at the Prince; he noted how the moonlight enhanced his murky green eyes, fair skin, and dark brown locks.

“What?” the Prince spat out, and Tristan realized he had been caught. He scrambled for something to say before deciding on the truth.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized.

Now it was Miles’ turn to be silent. “I know,” he said. “I overreacted, and I am truly sorry.”

“Why were you upset about?”

“I was enjoying our time away from court—I was enjoying _you_ ,” he admitted, causing the older man to blush. “And I thought we were…becoming something. But as soon as trouble arrives, you close off and become different.”

“How so?” asked Tristan, glad the Prince was finally talking to him.

“It’s as if you are a completely different person: you’re stiff and cold. While I admire your diplomatic skills, I think you’re hiding something,” Miles mused.

Tristan remembered Grant and felt sick to his stomach. “I am hiding something,” he admitted, “but I am not ready to tell you.”

Miles appeared only slightly disappointed. “I will respect that.”

Tristan opened his mouth to remind him he was still working to get his father off of the throne when Winston’s horse neighed.

Winston grinned. “I found it! It is one league east,” he informed while he mounted his horse.

“Whose house are we riding towards?” the Prince asked as the trio turned east.

“Lady Imogen,” replied Winston. “She is a dear friend of mine.”

“Just a friend, I hope? Remember you are still engaged to my sister,” the Prince warned.

Tristan saw the gleam of Winston’s teeth in the moonlight. “Do not worry, my friend. I am still in love with your sister, and Lady Imogen is already taken with Lady Jacqueline.”

Tristan perked up. “Lady Imogen and Lady Jacqueline are married? When?”

“Last summer, right after King Hollingsworth passed the bill to allow same-sex relations—quite reluctantly, might I add.”

Miles winced in the dark. “That was not a pleasant summer,” he remembered.

In the distance, they saw a beacon of light in the form of Lady Imogen’s and Lady Jacqueline’s home. The home was small by their standards, but extraordinarily grand for mere ladies. The men tied their horses down and climbed the porch. Winston knocked and waited for a response.

Lady Imogen answered with a bright smile. “Prince Winston!” she embraced him tightly. Over Winston’s shoulder, she saw Tristan and Miles. “Prince Miles,” she bowed respectfully.

Prince Miles nodded and stepped forward to greet her appropriately. “Hello, Lady Imogen.”

She misinterpreted this and dove forward to wrap him in a hug; an amused Tristan watched with a faint smile. Miles stumbled back, but embraced her back. Imogen turned to face Tristan and assessed him with curious eyes. “I do not believe I know you, sir.”

Tristan bowed. “Duke of Milligan, milady.”

Imogen gasped. “From Matlin? Oh!” she cried. She ducked her head into the house. “Jack! Oh, Jack, look—someone from Matlin is here!”

A pretty redhead appeared in the doorway moments later. She bowed and addressed the men formally (unlike her wife). “I was one of Princess Katie’s ladies-in-waiting,” Lady Jacqueline revealed.

Tristan’s eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, I remember. You danced at her wedding; very beautiful,” he complimented.

“As you were,” she smiled. “How is Matlin?”

Tristan sighed, the weight of politics hanging around his neck. “Princess Katie is far away from the war in Martin. Queen Margaret,” he coughed, “is ill, and the Queen is—“

“—a runaway bride before the marriage even occurred,” Winston quipped up, chuckling a bit. He quieted when Tristan glared at him.

Lady Imogen gasped. “Will she be abdicated?”

All heads turned towards Tristan, and he gulped. “I do not know,” he admitted. “I haven’t been in Matlin in months, but my correspondences reveal she is at risk for losing the crown.”

“Then what would happen to Matlin?” questioned Lady Jacqueline.

Tristan opened his mouth, but closed it immediately. “I do not know,” he admitted truthfully.

Miles cleared his throat. “Enough talk about politics,” he exclaimed with fabricated cheerfulness. The small group laughed, and the ladies invited the men into their home.

Lady Jacqueline gestured to the dining room. “You are welcome to join us for dinner if you are not tired from your journey.”

Winston’s mouth was practically salivating. “I will go and wash up,” he said, leaping up the stairs.

“Still remember where the bathroom is?” Lady Imogen teased as Winston disappeared around the corner.

“Honey, why don’t you show Prince Miles and the Duke to their chambers?” Lady Jacqueline offered.

Lady Imogen kissed Lady Jacqueline on the cheek and gathered her skirts to run up the staircase. “Come along,” she gestured to the two men.

They followed her through crème-colored hallways until she stopped in front of a wine-colored hallway. “These are the guest chambers,” her voice bounced off of the walls. Imogen put a hand on each one of their shoulders and gently pushed them forward. “Pick a suite,” she urged.

Tristan stood back, allowing the Prince to choose first. Miles looked back at Tristan and laughed. “I am not a prince here, Tristan,” he reminded him. “We can choose at the same time.”

Tristan blushed and stepped towards a door. His hand landed on the gilded knob and opened it with a slight gasp. The room was about half the size of his chambers at court, but what it lacked in size it made up for it in small victories. The peach-colored carpet was soft under his riding roots and matched the silk curtains that framed the balcony, which presented the stellar night. He glanced upward and saw a blue and golden mural painted on the ceiling, looking like the stars he had studied in school. A wooden armoire was tucked intimately into a corner opposite of a sturdy desk that begged him to sit down and write upon it. A massive bed with peach and crème sheets beckoned to him. Paintings by famous painters decked the walls leading into the bathroom. A grand and luxurious bath engulfed the bathroom, along with a marble sink.

“Is it to your liking, sir?” Lady Imogen asked, anxious for his response.

He was too choked up, but quickly regained his composure. “Yes, thank you, Lady Imogen.” He stepped fully into his chambers and prepared to close the door. But before he did, he did not fail to see the Prince’s concerned expression.

\--

Tristan declined the dinner invitation, not because he was not hungry but he preferred to bathe and remove the day’s grime from his body. As soon as he stepped out of the tub, a knock sounded at his door. “I will be with you in a minute!” Tristan called as he dressed quickly in his underwear and robe. Tristan opened the door to see the Prince leaning against the wall adjacent to his door, holding a tray (which was a bizarre sight in itself). “Miles,” Tristan breathed, shocked.

“May I come in?” the Prince asked, lifting the tray slightly with a smirk.

Tristan stepped aside to allow him in and closed the door. “I am sorry for not making an appearance during dinner,” he started.

The Prince set the tray down on the desk and faced him. “You were missed,” he said, leaning against the post that supported Tristan’s bed.

“Good.”

They just stared at each other.

“I’m not giving up,” Tristan interrupted the silence, “on getting your father off of the throne.”

He sighed. “Sometimes, I don’t know if getting him off of the throne is the best thing. Sometimes, I just want him…gone.”

“And he will—one way or another,” Tristan assured him. He walked over to the desk and smiled. “Did you bring me cookies?”

Miles blushed. “I thought you would want something sweet after the day we have had. And I, uh, hoped we could share them,” he said sheepishly.

Tristan plucked a cookie from the plate and bit into it. “Delicious,” he remarked, swallowing; he failed to notice how the Prince’s eyes followed the movement of his throat. However, he did notice he was blocking the tray and stepped aside. “Have one,” he offered.

The Prince frowned, but took a cookie anyways. They chewed in uncomfortable silence.

“You want to ask me something,” Tristan stated with a neutral tone.

“Why were you so taken aback by your chambers?” asked Miles.

Tristan sighed. “I knew you would ask. These chambers look just like my mother’s. Her chambers were a safe place for both of us. Whenever something bad would happen, we would get under the sheets, and she would read a book to me, or I would sing a lullaby for her. Those were good memories.”

“Good memories,” echoed Miles. He cleared his throat. “Your mother sounds like a wonderful woman.”

He smiled wistfully, not at the Prince but at the memory. “Yes, she was.” Tristan lied down on his bed and patted the empty spot next to him.

After a moment of hesitation, Miles joined him, but avoided the Duke’s eyes.

“Grant.”

“Grant?”

Tristan took a deep breath. “His name was Grant, and he was the royal tutor. I had surpassed the age required for a tutor, but Grant was proficient at Novakian, a language I will admit I struggle in. I studied with him two hours a day, and I…” he paused, squeezing his eyes shut, “fell in love with him.” He opened his eyes and glanced at Miles; Tristan found him fully immersed in his tale. “Though Matlin had passed the bill, Grant wanted us to hide our relationship. And we did for a short month until Maya found him snooping in my private study. She claims he was stealing documents pertaining to Matlin’s earlier history. Queen Margaret had him beheaded the following morning, and as my punishment, I was forced to watch.”

“Tristan,” Miles whispered, and his hand found the other man’s.

“The terrible part is that I do not even know if he was truly committing treason or simply waiting for me,” Tristan admitted as tears streamed down his face.

Miles watched as the bold and confident duke crumbled to pieces right in front of him, and he did the only thing he could: he hugged him.

“I still have nightmares about that day,” Tristan sobbed, and his tears soaked the Prince’s shirt. “I hold a grudge against Maya even though she might have been within her limits as queen. I don’t know who to believe because he is dead!” Tristan beat at Miles’ chest, and he let him because the man was in pain, and pain was sharper than the deadliest knight’s sword.

Gradually, Tristan’s tears stopped, and he pushed himself away from the Prince. “I am sorry; I should not burden you with such trivial things—“

“There it is,” Miles noted with a hurt expression on his face.

“Where what is?” questioned Tristan.

“You closed yourself off—you became stiff and cold. Why?” his voice began to climb in volume. “Why do you do that?” he shouted, jumping to his feet.

Tristan mirrored him, and his face reddened even more. “Because I’m a duke! And you’re a prince! We have to be professionals!”

Miles threw his hands up in the air and stepped closer to Tristan. “Here we go again about the prince thing! How many times do I have to tell you—I do not care about it! I wish we could have stayed at the country house forever!”

“But we cannot, Miles. As much as I wanted us to, we had to leave—not for our sakes, but our countries’ sakes.” He breathed slowly and impulsively took another step closer. “But you are going to be King of Hollingsworth someday, and if I do my job correctly, that day will come sooner than we all know. You need to be ready and at court.”

“What if I don’t want to be king?” he whispered, and they were so close that his words fell against Tristan’s lips.

Tristan swallowed, but stuck his chin up defiantly and held his gaze. “That’s a lie; you cannot wait to be King, so you can clean up your father’s mistakes and begin helping people. _Your_ people,” he stressed.

“Until I mess up like my father,” Miles laughed bitterly.

“You will not,” Tristan told him sternly. “You are not your father—you are Prince and soon-to-be-King Miles III of Hollingsworth. Long may he reign.”

Miles smiled at him, and Tristan knew it was one of his genuine ones because he showed his pearly teeth. “Thank you,” the Prince said.

Tristan bowed playfully. “Serving the future king is my pleasure, but I should go to bed; we have a long ride tomorrow.”

Miles sighed, but stepped backwards with his hands respectfully behind his back. “You are right; goodnight, Tristan.”

“Goodnight, Miles.”

\--

            Miles stepped inside his chambers, a smile still on his face. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a match to light some candles. As soon as he struck it, Winston’s face appeared in front of him like an apparition. The Prince jumped and hissed, “Chewy! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

            Winston rolled his eyes unapologetically. “I heard yelling,” he offered as his excuse. “I came to see if you were fine, but then, I heard you in the good Duke’s room. Care to explain?”

            Miles lit the nearest candles. “Explain what, Chewy? We were just talking.”

            “Talking? My friend, I saw you go upstairs with a tray of cookies—you never _voluntarily_ carry anything.”

            “I’m a guest here, Chewy, not a prince,” Miles scoffed.

            “Oh, so your princely duties include caring for a crying duke?” Miles huffed at Winston’s careless tone and moved to another candle. “Why was he crying? I assumed a professional like him didn’t cry.”

            Miles faced him. “He is not different from us, Chewy. He has the most intense feelings, and I-I just wanted to be a good friend like he has been for me,” Miles blurted, turning his back so Winston wouldn’t see him blush.

            “Is he a good friend or something else?” asked Winston. “Considering you have only known each other for a little over a month, I am scared to know the answer.”

            Miles smirked, pushing Winston towards the door. “Goodnight, Chewy.”

“No response? I did not know you were such a coward!”

            “The only person that is a coward is the person that waited in my chambers in the dark.”

            Winston gasped, offended. “I waited for you out of the kindness of my heart!” he defended himself before Miles threw him outside and closed the door in his face.

            Miles leaned against the door, considering Winston’s question. “Fuck,” he cursed when he reached a conclusion. “I love him.”

\--

Tristan woke up before the sun did and sat in the dark, reliving memories from the former night. It had been a little bit of good, a little bit of bad, and a whole lot of both, but Tristan was glad he could finally act like himself around the younger Prince. And he was glad the Prince trusted him enough to tell him about his insecurities.

“Duke Tristan?” Lady Jacqueline knocked at the door, snapping him from his musings.

Tristan jumped to his feet and answered the door. “Lady Jacqueline,” he greeted fondly. “Come in, please.”

She walked in, bending to bow slightly, but Tristan waved her off. She gestured for a maid to follow her into the chambers, and a maid entered with a silver tray in her hands. She set it on his desk, eyed the bronze tray Miles left there last night, and looked at Lady Jacqueline for confirmation.

“Take it,” Lady Jacqueline commanded, and the maid nodded, leaving promptly and closing the door behind her. Lady Jacqueline gathered her skirts and delicately took a seat on his bed. “Tristan, I know.”

“Know what, milady?” Tristan asked, opening the armoire to fetch his satchel.

“About your feelings for the Prince.”

Tristan dropped his satchel. “What feelings? There are no feelings,” he lied, picking his satchel back up.

“Do not lie to me,” she stressed, “but I understand how you are feeling. I felt the exact same way with Imogen,” she smiled at the memory. “But you have to ignore that little voice in your head that suspiciously sounds like Queen Margaret and trust your heart.”

“My heart says I shouldn’t get involved.”

“Are you sure that’s your heart?” inquired Lady Jacqueline.

Tristan was silent. “I am older than him,” he commented.

She scoffed. “Four years is nothing when the plague is around.”

Tristan laughed. “I have missed your jokes, Lady Jacqueline.”

She laughed as well and rose to her feet. “Listen to your heart, Tristan,” she advised, kissing his cheek. “You can break your fast after you have dressed. I remembered how much you adored those strawberry pastries we used to have in Matlin and instructed the cook to make enough to feed an army; he took me quite literally, and the kitchen is practically overflowing with them!”

Tristan smiled graciously at her, but his mind was already a million leagues away. “Thank you for your generosity.” While Lady Jacqueline saw herself out, Tristan mulled over their discussion and came to a startlingly conclusion.

“Fuck, I love him.”

\--

Cloaked in the shadow of the ladies’ house, Miles watched with a smile as Tristan converse with Lady Imogen. After freaking out for all of about ten minutes, Miles accepted his feelings for the older man wholeheartedly. He did not know when the feelings developed nor did he try to undermine them. But he knew they were there and couldn’t stop the odd, warm feeling arising in his chest.

“Staring does not accomplish anything,” Winston quipped from besides him, moving slightly in front of him and tossing him an apple.

The Prince caught and bit into it, wiping at the juice that dribbled down his chin. “I do not know what you are talking about,” he lied, stepping out of the shadows.

Winston followed him. “Remember our conversation last night?” he inquired.

“Fondly,” he responded sarcastically.

“You have come to an end, I presume?”

“An end to what?” he faced his friend with a determined expression. “If anything, I can see much clearer. I know what course of action I have to take.”

“With the Duke?” Winston asked, unconvinced.

Miles’ eyes narrowed. “I am beginning to think you have a rather poor perception of the good Duke—why?”

“I don’t,” Winston replied too quickly. “I just want to—well, you know who he is. He’s a bastard of a king—“

“Don’t let him hear you call him that,” Miles advised, chuckling as he remembered their first meeting.

“—and you’re a well-respected prince,” Winston finished, causing Miles to sigh angrily. “Tell me no resentment comes out of that arrangement.” Winston held his hands up in surrender and claimed, “I am merely trying to assure no one gets hurt.”

Miles avoided Winston’s eyes. “Tristan is a good man.”

“I possess no doubt he is, but you need to remember that he is a duke first and a man second.”

Miles opened his mouth—perhaps to refute Winston’s claims—but he was interrupted by the Duke, whom bounded up to the Princes with a basket full of pastries.

“Strawberry tart?” the Duke offered. “I can attest; they are quite delicious.” As if to further prove his point, he bit into a pastry and moaned at the delightful savor; yes, he—a diplomatic duke— _moaned_ like a prostitute!

Miles dropped his apple in shock.

 Winston stifled his chuckles before clearing his throat. “You have some jam on your face,” he pointed out.

Tristan frowned and tried to wipe at the smear, missing it completely. Miles plucked a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped at Tristan’s face; the Duke’s movements froze.

“There,” the Prince whispered, and his eyes flitted up to meet the Duke’s dumbfounded gaze.

“Thanks,” Tristan managed, clearing his throat. “Don’t you think we should go? I see clouds on the horizon,” he argued and gestured towards the sky, but his eyes didn’t dare move from the Prince’s.

“Perhaps,” the Prince replied, his voice weak.

Winston whistled shrilly, capturing their attention once more. “The Duke is right—a storm is coming, and we need to get to Hollingsworth by midday.”

And just like that, the spell was broken.

\--

            Three persistent knocks on his chambers’ door woke the King. He arose, pulling a thin robe around his naked form. He cracked the door open, only revealing his face and a thin sliver of his body. “Yes?” he answered crossly.

            The guard frowned. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but your son has returned. He requests a meeting in your private study or the throne room.”

            The King harrumphed. “First, he runs off and causes all of this trouble; now, he wants an audience in the middle of the night?”

            The guard shifted nervously. “He said it cannot wait until the morning.”

The King sighed. “Wake the Queen.” The guard nodded and began to walk off when the King grabbed his arm abruptly and pulled him back. “Tell me, who accompanied him?”

The guard hesitated before replying, “Prince Winston and the Duke of Milligan.”

The King chuckled, releasing the guard. “Interesting,” he mused. “And I thought the good Duke went back to Matlin.”

“Perhaps he did,” the guard offered, his voice shaking. “And met the Prince on his way back?”

The King laughed. “I like your theories, but keep them to yourself. You are dismissed, Aspen.”

The guard scurried away, clutching his bruised arm.

The King closed the door and turned back to an awaken Andrea. “What are you doing to do?” she asked.

He grabbed a sword from his mantle and unsheathed it. The evil glint from the sword reflected his evil smile. “Fight for my country.”

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this story, Tristan is 19, and Miles, Maya, and Winston are 15. Everyone else’s ages are close to their Degrassi counterparts. Also, did you catch "The Selection" reference?


	4. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have changed, and new conflicts arrive at the court.

“Your chambers have been moved in case another attempt on your life would be made,” Drew explained as he escorted a weary Tristan to his chambers. “The King hopes you find your new chambers to your liking; he has also instructed me to reassure you that while you are at his court, your life is safe in his hands.”

Tristan barely compressed an ironic chuckle. “Thank you,” he said with as much earnest as he could muster.

Drew nodded and exited the chambers silently, closing the door behind him. Tristan didn’t bother checking the bed and collapsed into it, inhaling the light rosy scent the maids left on the sheets.

The door burst open, and a livid Lady Victoria Santamaria and an always collected Lady Grace glided across his chambers to his bed. Before he had a chance to say anything, Lady Victoria’s hand struck Tristan’s cheek.

He sat up, now fully awake. “Tori?” he asked, gingerly touching his cheek.

Tears streamed out of her eyes. “Don’t you ever leave me again,” she commanded sternly before embracing him tightly. He returned the hug with a slight smile—he _had_ missed Tori and the happiness she brought him.

“She cried for a month when she found out you ran off,” Lady Grace interjected crudely. She walked over to his desk and inspected the basket he brought back from Lady Imogen’s and Lady Jacqueline’s house. “Are these…strawberry tarts?” her voice took on a more teasing tone.

Lady Tori’s head popped up comically, and she practically ran over to the basket. She examined the pastry and asked, “So, it isn’t true? You went back to Matlin?” She almost sounded disappointed.

Tristan’s heart raced with the incoming lie. “Yes,” he swallowed his other words. “Where did you think I went?”

“One of the servants swore they saw you riding off with Prince Miles; given the fact he left around the same time you did, it’s plausible,” Lady Grace argued, biting into the pastry.

“Rumors began to spread, but rumors are rumors: how is Matlin?” Lady Victoria asked, wringing her hands nervously.

“Not good; Queen Margaret is sick, and the people want Maya abdicated. In the event that Queen Margaret dies, I don’t know what will happen to Matlin.”

Lady Tori gasped. “The royal line might be finished? What about the Pope? Surely he sees the urgency in the situation. Maybe he will legitimize you?”

Lady Grace snorted. “Victoria, we are talking about the Pope: the most stubborn bastard in all of the kingdoms.” While Tristan was alarmed she used the word “bastard” to refer to the Sovereign of Vatican City State, he couldn’t agree with her more. “He can’t interfere with the line of succession just because the country ran out of sovereigns.”

“Tristan should technically be in the line of succession,” she argued, “Queen Margaret met the King after the late Lady.”

Tristan flinched at the mention of his mother. “Doesn’t matter,” he snapped before a knock sounded at the door.

Drew entered with a solemn expression. “My lord,” he addressed, bowing slightly. “The King wishes to see you.”

Lady Grace glanced at an equally confused Tristan. “What, the three hours you spent talking to him in the wee hours were not adequate?”

Drew coughed, a little taken aback by Lady Grace’s tone. “My lady, this is not meant for your ears—“

Lady Grace snorted. “My ears have heard them all. I have heard of everything that goes on in this castle. I do not think the King would approve of his page visiting the Queen’s chambers thrice a day.” She noticed the palpable tension in the room and huffed. “Am I wrong?”

Drew blushed. “No, my lady,” he admitted. He nodded at Tristan. “Come, Sir.”

\--

            Drew led him to the throne room and opened the grand, wooden doors. “The Duke of Milligan,” he announced before leaving to serve the King once more.

Tristan bowed respectfully and assessed the wooden practice swords set up. “Your Majesty,” he addressed, frowning at the uneasy smile the King gave him.

            “Hello, Tristan. I hope you find your chambers to your liking.”  The King smirked from his perch on the gilded throne.

            “Yes, I do. Thank you for your generosity, your Majesty.” Tristan cleared his throat as he awkwardly stood in one place, waiting for the King to make his move.

            The King chuckled quietly to himself. “I hope you appreciate I deliberately placed your chambers in proximity to my son’s.”

            Tristan barely held back a gasp. “I did not know that,” he managed. “Why, your Majesty?”

            The King dodged the question and laughed as if he didn’t believe Tristan. “Isn’t it odd I see you more than my eldest son?” he remarked, gradually rising to his feet.

            “Yes, your Grace,” he answered immediately. “Why do you think that is?”

            The King strolled over to the display of wooden practice swords and twirled one thoughtfully between his digits. “Perhaps practice for the future,” he mused before turning to face Tristan. “Humor your King and fight with me,” he invited with fabricated cheerfulness.

            “You are not my King,” he blurted out as his heart raced at the thought of fighting the very man that plotted against his life.

            “Ah, but who is? You will never be a king. Not in this lifetime or the lifetimes that will follow you throughout your existence.” He stripped off his expensive cloak and doublet, revealing a linen shirt and a pair of trousers. “But if you were, you would have to prove yourself. Let us see if those hours you claimed you spent with your late father’s generals pay off.” He tossed Tristan a practice sword, which he caught.

            Tristan weighed the outcomes in his hands: if he won, he could force his hand and question if the King attempted to kill him. But if he lost…

            He cast off his jerkin and doublet and readied his stance, sword pointed at the King.

            They stood in silence, breathing loudly as the seconds ticked on. Finally, the King’s eyes darted to the left, but his hips swayed to the right. Tristan noticed this and moved quickly to the left, prepared to strike. His sword met the King’s in a loud clack, causing the King to grin widely and victoriously, as if he had already won. Tristan made a frustrated sound and broke first, swiping at the King’s feet. The King dodged out of his way before striking at Tristan’s ribs. Tristan barely caught it with the edge of his sword; with a grunt, he attempted to knock the King off of his balance, but failed to do so because the King was too vast and bulky.

            The King smiled and whispered, “Checkmate,” before abusing his strength to knock the hilt of his sword into the side of Tristan’s head. He fell to the ground, groaning as the ground spun beneath him. The King discarded the sword with a sigh. “I thought you would be more of a challenge. But you did well, boy—especially when you caught my false move. Did my son teach you that at his country house?”

            Though Tristan’s head felt like he had had too many drinks at the pub, he jumped when he realized what the King implied. “Your Grace—“

            “I know everything that happens in my kingdom,” the King cut him off simply before eyeing him pitifully. “I’ll send for your page to fetch you—“

            “No,” Tristan replied, stumbling to his feet. “I will go.” He bowed shakily. “Thank you for the duel, your Majesty.”

            The King stared at him with a blank expression. “The pleasure was mine.”

\--

            Tristan ran through the halls to the courtyard (where Miles’ page said he would find him) with the news swirling around in his head. The King knew that he and Miles ran off (despite their efforts to dissuade him earlier) to the country house. Questions began to emerge in his head: why did the King send Winston on a wild goose chase? Why didn’t the King just send some guards to capture them? Why didn’t the King send an assassin to finish Tristan off?

            He turned a sharp corner, grasping onto it as his vision dipped again. He shook his head before he glanced down and caught a glimpse of the Prince; he was in the courtyard below, but he was not alone. A girl hung on Miles’ arm as they strolled casually. Apparently, she had just told him something hilarious because he had thrown his head back and laughed, teeth gleaming.

            Tristan’s head spun, but he was sure it was not due to his duel with the King. With a heavy heart, he turned away from the sight only to find Prince Winston watching him curiously.

            “Prince Winston,” Tristan greeted, startled. “I was just going to find Prince Miles,” he excused himself.

Prince Winston ignored him and glanced around his shoulder. An apologetic, pitiful expression crossed his face. “That is Lady Lola of Rivas. She was found near the borders, exiled after she was suspected of being a traitor.”

            “Was she?” Tristan found himself asking.

            “For a good reason,” Winston replied. “But apparently, she is the widow of a very wealthy lord. The King is thinking of officially dissolving the Matlin engagement and arranging for Lady Lola and Miles to marry.”

            Tristan’s stomach plummeted. “Really?” he echoed hollowly. “I did not know of that.”

            Winston strode closer to the window and stared down at the unsuspecting couple. “It is fairly early to tell, but I gather Miles and Lady Lola are quite fond of each other—opposed to your former sister,” he assessed.

            “Watch your tongue—she is still my sister,” Tristan snapped, angered by Winston’s aloof words.

            “Half-sister,” Winston corrected. He stepped away from the window and into Tristan’s personal boundaries. “But due to this…advancement, whatever you had with the Prince is done.”

            Tristan bristled. “Pardon me?”

            Winston grabbed his forearm with a surprising amount of strength. “The alliance with Matlin is dissolved, and soon, Matlin will burn without a ruler. Do you really think there is a place for you at court anymore? The Prince cannot protect you when he’s too busy falling in love with his next bride. So if I were you, I would enjoy my last days,” Winston hissed into Tristan’s ear.

            Tristan pushed the wiry Prince back. “Matlin will not burn,” he exclaimed. “And as for my friendship with the Prince, things have not altered.”

            The other Prince snorted. “I have seen how you two interact; if that is friendship, what I have with Francesca is mere companionship.”

            Tristan was silent for a few beats, collecting his thoughts. “What if it is love? Love can exist in many forms, as said by the Greeks: Eros, storge, agape and philia.”

            “What kind of love do you possess for the Prince?” Winston asked, studying him intently.

            He hesitated. “That is irrelevant considering he will fail to reciprocate any love I have for him.”

            “You are right,” Winston lied. “Perhaps the Greeks were wrong.”

            “Or I was,” Tristan whispered to himself. “Excuse me,” he bowed before walking hastily away.

            Winston stared after him, secretly eager another part of his scheme fell into place.

\--

            The King slammed his hands on the previously sturdy desk. “No, we need to attack now! The Rivas are weakened now after their recent battle with the Campbells.”

            Miles shook his head. “I agree with the latter, father, but our men stationed near Rivas’ borders need more men. If our hold on their borders falls, we will surely lose.”

            One of the King’s generals nodded. “He is right, your Grace.”

            While the King looked positively livid his son was blossoming under the light of responsibility, Tristan--despite his numb heart after witnessing the Prince and his latest lady love—smiled, for he knew Miles was already a great king. But the diplomat side of him—or the side he inherited from his father, if you would—was singing to a different tune.

            “While that is true, there are Rivas spies stationed alongside every route—main or countryside--from here to Rivas. You need an evasion strategy,” Tristan spoke up.

            Every pair of eyes turned towards him—some were friendly, some were curious, a pair of forest green eyes was in pure admiration, and one was pure hell.

            A commander with neat blonde hair cleared his throat. “What would you suggest?” he asked. His words might have sounded rude in someone else’s mouth, but the man’s tone implied he was merely curious and slightly in awe.

            Tristan stood and strolled over to a map of Rivas, feeling Miles’ eyes on him the entire time. He pointed to a patch of land. “See this? To the average eye, it appears to be some land—perhaps a farmer’s or a lord’s. But that is actually the Bay of West.”

            The King scoffed. “A bay? Why would the map not include a body of water? And how do _you_ know it is there, pray tell?”

            Tristan opened his mouth to defend himself with a brief account of his travels when the commander spoke up.

            “He’s right. During the Third Degrassi War, I traveled there. The reason this map doesn’t include the bay is because this map was not made by Rivas’ mapmakers. In fact, no one but the citizens of Rivas and a handful of travelers know of its’ existence.”

            Tristan sent a thankful glance towards the commander (he didn’t catch the confused expression that flitted across the Prince’s face). “Correct. Now, as I was saying, if your Majesty could spare a few boats, he would have three companies of men in Rivas by the end of next week.”

            The generals turned to the King, who was stroking his crown with a thoughtful expression. “You are truly your father’s son,” he remarked. “Brilliant and a key strategist. Generals,” he addressed, “gather your men. You leave tomorrow at sunset.”

            As the generals filed towards the door, Tristan hung back to speak to Miles. He halfway convinced himself he was waiting to inform him of what he had learned from the King earlier, but his heart betrayed him; of course he wanted to know about the Prince and this new lady. As the Prince walked towards him, he attempted to convey his bitter attitude with a solemn expression. Unfortunately (or fortunately?), Commander Brent stepped in front of the Prince.

            “I am not supposed to say the King is ever wrong, but he was definitely not wrong about you,” the commander complimented.

            Tristan laughed. “Thank you, Commander Brent.”

            The Prince stepped around Brent to sidle next to Tristan. “If you would excuse us, Commander…” he trailed off, pretending he failed to remember the commander’s name.

            Brent rolled his eyes, but bowed respectfully. “Your Highness.” His eyes scanned Tristan’s warmly. “I hope to see you at dinner, Duke of Milligan.”

            Tristan raised a brow. “Why the entire title? ‘Sir’ or ‘lord’ would suffice.”

            Brent chuckled. “I like the grand title—it suits you.” And with that, the commander strolled off.

            Tristan sighed before facing the Prince. “I looked for you—“

            “What the hell was that?” the Prince questioned, his stature serious and tall.

            “What, Brent?” Tristan realized his mistake seconds after.

            Miles’ eyes hardened. “Brent? You can call a man you have just met by his first name, yet you fail to call me by mine? After all we have been through?”

            Tristan crossed his arms defiantly. “So, this is about the name calling? Fine—I will only address you as Miles for now on. Happy, your _Highness_?”

            “That’s not what I meant,” Miles set a hand on Tristan’s shoulder and stepped closer. “I just—“

            “Can we please drop it? We have other pressing matters,” Tristan blurted, using that as an excuse to push Miles away. He glanced at the slightly ajar door before whispering, “The King knew where we went.”

            “What? When did he tell you—“

            “I dueled with your father this morning.” Tristan cherished the slight satisfaction he received when he saw the Prince’s jaw drop. “But after he hit me, he made a remark about your country house.”

            Miles’ hands found the top rail of a nearby chair and gripped it tightly, causing his knuckles to turn white as snow. “He hit you?” he asked lowly.

            “That is what you are concerned with? Not the fact that your father knew where we were, yet he still enlisted Winston to find us? Not the fact that your father could’ve hired out an assassin to kill us in our sleep? Not the fact that this strengthens our case against your father?”

            “He hurt you, knowing it was the easiest way to invoke a reaction out of me.” Miles’ gaze ensnared Tristan’s, and for what felt like an eternity, he was unable to move.

            The door groaned, and the spell broke as the two men faced the intruder.

            Lady Lola paused with one hand on the door. She blinked slowly and smiled. “Oh, did I interrupt something?” she asked in her lovely voice.

            Tristan found it impossible to feel any level of hate towards the woman, but it was possible to feel the slowly dropping of his heart. “No, Lady Lola,” he bowed, starting towards the door. He felt Miles’ fingers grasp the air he had just occupied, and he sighed. Whether it was in relief or sadness, no one would ever know. With one hand on the door, Tristan glanced back into the Prince’s piercing eyes. “You did not interrupt anything.”

\--

            _Thunk._ Another arrow hit the heart of the dummy. _Funny—that’s exactly how I feel,_ Tristan thought dryly before grabbing another arrow from his quiver. He aimed, narrowed his cloudy eyes, and released.

            The arrow found its’ target in the tree behind the dummy, and he set his bow down with a sigh as he ran to retrieve it. He began to yank the shaft out of the thick trunk when he heard rustling above him. Tristan paused in his movements and notched another arrow quickly, pointing it at the green leaves above him. Tristan noticed a lithe figure lurking in the shadows. “Who are you?” he asked as his grip on the bow increased, causing the bow to groan. His heartbeat was incredibly loud in his ears. Was it the assassin?

            The figure dropped softly behind him, and he whirled around, arrow training on his new target…Prince Hunter. Tristan immediately dropped his bow. “Prince Hunter,” he gasped before bowing respectfully. “I hope you do not mind me asking, but what were you doing up in that tree?”

            Hunter shrugged. “Seeing at a distance helps me think. If you do not mind _me_ asking, what did you do with my brother when you both were away?”

            Tristan sighed, wondering what else the King filled his children’s heads with. “Do not listen to the rumors, your Highness. Like I told the court this morning, I went to Matlin after the Queen fell sick with the plague.”

            Hunter nodded. “Except I was aware the Queen was sick with the plague long before you arrived.”

            “ _Merde,_ ” Tristan cursed underneath his breath. The younger Hollingsworth was not one to underestimate. “Prince Hunter—“

            “I don’t need to know the specifics, but I need to know this: were you with my brother?” Hunter stared into Tristan’s eyes, silently begging him.

            Something in Hunter’s eyes (which were eerily similar to Miles’) told Tristan he was to be trusted. Instead of answering verbally, he nodded once.

            Hunter also nodded, and it was then that Tristan realized Hunter somehow knew everything. He waited for the younger Prince to pry, but was oddly relieved when he just reached back and pulled a sleek black arrow out of the quiver Tristan just noticed he was wearing on his back.

“May I?” he gestured towards Tristan’s bow.

            Tristan relinquished it without a thought and watched as the younger Prince notched the arrow with ease. He locked eyes with Tristan as he released the arrow without looking. Tristan glanced at the dummy and gasped when the arrow planted itself into the dummy’s head: perfect shot.

            “You are spectacular,” Tristan remarked earnestly as Hunter returned his bow.

            Hunter chuckled. “Same to you—I heard you fought with my father this morning.”

            “ _Lost_ to your father,” Tristan corrected, disgruntled.

            Hunter raised an eyebrow. “Which is an accomplishment in itself. Tristan, no one has endured in a duel with my father for more than a few seconds--you lasted a whole two minutes. That is longer than any solider or general in the army.” He paused. “Longer than any one of his children.”

            “Hunter,” Tristan started, wanting to confront the younger man about his father’s abuse. “I know—“

            Hunter held up a hand. “I know you know,” he spoke softly. “Can we please not talk about it?”

            Tristan notched an arrow. “As you wish.”

            The two tortured men silently shot arrows, gradually decimating the dummy as the sun began its’ descent in the sky.

\--

            Tristan ignored the Prince at dinner, opting to sit next to Commander Brent. He genuinely enjoyed Commander Brent’s insight on politics and their alike travels, but he was thoroughly surprised to learn his favorite book was also _1001 Arabian Nights_. They chatted about the book animatedly, drawing attention from the King.

            The King raised his goblet sloppily towards them. “To a budding relationship!” he shouted, wine sloshing dangerously out of the goblet.

            The nobles raised their goblets respectfully, and Tristan laughed at the King’s inebriated state until he caught sight of the departing Prince.

            “Where are you going?” the King shouted after his oldest son, attempting to get to his feet. His royal mistress and the Queen attempted to steady him by grabbing his arms. Unfortunately, the King shrugged them off and staggered towards the Prince. Tristan felt his hand inch towards the dagger he kept in his waistband, but maintained a collected expression.

            The Prince sighed, turning to face his father. “Excuse me, father, but I do not feel well.” He said “ _father_ ” in the same manner one would say “horse feces”.

            The nobles drew silent as the King’s face darkened. “Watch your tone,” the King warned, swaying.

            The Prince’s eyes held his father’s distant ones. “My tone? This is coming from a King with his royal mistress and loyal Queen sitting at his sides like nothing is wrong.”

            “Take that back!” the King roared, flinging a thumb towards Andrea. “She deserves the exact amount of honor your mother gets.”

            “Until you find another young woman who would not mind giving up her virtue to share a bed with the _King_ ,” the Prince sneered.

            The King raised his fist, and Tristan’s hand gripped his dagger. The Prince—oh, his stupid and brave Miles—stood, unblinking. “Do it,” he challenged.

            The nobles watched with baited breath as the King and the Prince stood inches apart with equally determined expressions. The King lowered his fist before slumping forward. The Prince caught the King, but avoided touching the King excessively, as if the King’s skin burned him. He carried the King over to the head of the table and practically threw his stiff body into the gilded chair.

            Miles locked eyes with Tristan, and for the first time that night, Tristan did not look away. “I apologize for my behavior tonight,” he spoke, directing his words towards Tristan in particular. “Though I cannot say the same for my father, I assure you the King apologizes for his behavior.” The Prince’s strong baritone combined with his gesture of power caused a shudder to involuntarily run through the Duke.

            The Prince smirked, noticing this. “I bid you goodnight.” He turned to leave, but his dramatic exit was interrupted when the door were pushed open by Drew, whom was flanked by three armed guards…carrying a withering, nearly dead solider. His armor was torn in some places, and blood spilled out from every exposed inch of skin. Sweat matted his hair, and a particularly gruesome gash ran from his temple down to the middle of his cheek.

            The table simultaneously gasped at the grisly sight. Tristan felt Commander Brent, who he nearly forgot was next to him, grip the arm of his chair nervously.

            “Your Majesty!” Drew called, brow drew tight with worry as the King groaned unintelligently in this chair.

            Miles gestured dismissively towards the King’s chair. “He does not matter; what happened?” he took the weight of the solider and carried him over to his own chair. After a quick examination of the soldier’s injuries, the Prince barked orders at a guard to fetch someone from the infirmary.

            “A guard on patrol found him just outside the castle’s gate,” Drew informed, shifting his uncertain eyes from the unconscious King to the confident and capable Prince. “This was with him,” Drew handed Miles a creased sheet of paper after a slight moment of hesitation.

            Tristan watched as Miles scanned the note and noticed how his face blanched.

            The Queen, ever so maternal, set a delicate hand on one of her son’s shoulders. “What is it, dear?”

            Miles gulped before gently shrugging his mother’s hand off and turning towards the anxious nobles. “It is with a heavy heart that I inform you that the recent companies of men we deployed to aid our soldiers near Rivas have been ambushed and killed. There were no survivors…except for—“ he swallowed harshly, avoiding the sight of the bleeding soldier in his chair.

            Suddenly, Tristan couldn’t move or talk; all he could do was think and feel—very strongly. Those men died following orders—orders Tristan helped craft. There were families that lost fathers, brothers, husbands, uncles, cousins—all because of Tristan’s plan. His eyes found the sight of the young solider. What was his story? Whom did his death affect? What kind of life did he lead? Did he have a wife? Children? Tristan could picture a crying widow with her children at the court next week. Then, he remembered the other companies of men and their families, and that one crying widow would multiply instantaneously. There would be parents crying over the loss of their child, children crying over the loss of their father, aunts and uncles crying over the loss of their nephew. All because of him.

            He quietly pushed back from his chair and slipped past the guards at the door, hoping no one noticed his discreet exit. But of course, someone did.

\--

            The moon perched on the inky sky and danced among the constellations. The constellations told stories, and Tristan remembered when his mother would sit with him on the balcony and point out the unique stars.

            “The stars’ stories are as unique as the stars themselves,” she had whispered into his ear. “Orion—a warrior favored by Artemis. Andromeda—a chained maiden. Ursa Major and Ursa Minor—well, I like to believe they are the two of us, put there by the gods to remind us of our purpose. Do you remember the story of Ursa Major and Ursa Minor?”

            Tristan used to shake his head because he wanted her to tell him again and again. And she did; in fact, it was the last thing she told him.

            “We are the products of your father’s love for us. Do not forget that, my son. You are destined for greater things. Remember the story.”

            “But what if I do not remember the story? After all, it is just a story.”

            She smiled sadly. “Nothing is just a story.” She kissed his forehead one last time before closing the door to his playroom. An hour later, she was dead.

            Someone briskly knocked at the door, and Tristan whirled around. “Come in,” he wiped furiously at the tears that streamed down his face.

            His page entered. “Prince Miles,” he announced curtly before leaving.

            Miles entered, looking about ten years older. He closed the door and took his hand from behind his back, revealing a bottle of wine. “I thought we both could use some.”

            Tristan strolled over to his cabinet and furnished two glasses. “You thought right,” he spoke lowly, wiping at his face once more.

            He heard Miles stop moving. “Were you just crying?” he inquired.

            “Yes,” he answered without turning his back. “I was just…reliving some memories.”

            “Good memories or bad?”

            “…both.”

            “…it wasn’t your fault.”

            “Yes, it is. I told the King about that bay.”

            “Yes, and he chose to go through with it. My father knew the risks, and he also knows kings have to gamble with risks.”

            “Gamble with risks? How about gambling with lives? Three companies of men lost their lives tonight!”

            “I realize that, and I am deeply upset, but we can only move forward. The families will arrive next week before Winston’s and Francesca’s wedding—“

            “Wedding?” Tristan faced him now. “I had not known.”

            Miles shifted uncomfortably. “It was the King’s doing. To ensure we have enough troops, he moved the wedding up.”

            A weight of guilt fell upon his shoulders. “So, your father is marrying your sister off because my plan caused him so many men?”

            Miles avoided his eyes. “At least she loves Winston.”

            “She’s young,” Tristan argued. “She does not know what love is.”

            “Do you?”

            “Do _you_?”

            “I do,” Miles responded quickly. “And he is in this room right now.”

            Tristan gasped. “Miles, careful what you say—“

            “That is, if he wants me. For all I know, he could be fond of that commander.” Miles scowled slightly before that love-struck expression returned to his eyes. “Because whatever he wants, I will still love him. And that is what love is.”

            “What about Lady Lola?” Tristan muttered, still in shock at the Prince’s declaration of love.

            Miles chuckled. “She is lovely, but more of my father’s type. I enjoy her company, but I don’t care about her the same way I care about you. With her, I would place my country in front of her. With you, I would place you in front of the world.”

            “Miles, I-I feel the same way,” Tristan admitted. He saw the smile break across Miles’ face and sadly knew his next words would wipe the smile off of his beautiful face. “But we cannot,” he paused, remembering Winston’s earlier words. “There is no place for me at court, and you cannot protect me because your father will eventually marry you off.”

            “No place for you at court? Tristan, my father wants you as a strategist. He sees your brilliance.”

            “He attempted to kill me,” the Duke reminded the Prince.

            “ _I_ will protect you.”

            “As what? What are we?” Miles opened his mouth to reply, but Tristan kept going. He needed to find an excuse to distance himself. “As your royal mister? A lover on the side? Like Andrea or my mother?” he gulped as memories of his mother overtook him. “You are just like your father.” Tristan knew those last words cut through Miles like a knife.

            Miles stepped closer, grabbing Tristan’s shoulders. “No, I would never do that,” he declared, staring into Tristan’s eyes. “You are what I want. What I love.”

            Tristan stepped back and out of his grasp. “No, do not say that. Please, get out.”

            “Tristan—“

            “GET OUT!” he shouted, tears falling freely as he remembered the pain associated with love. He also remembered the pain his father caused his mother—how she took it without a word in retaliation. But he was not his mother—he was weak, vulnerable, and pathetic.

            Miles’ jaw clamped shut. “I understand,” he said, but his voice sounded strained as if every word caused him physical pain. He dropped his hand into Tristan’s, and Tristan marveled at how perfectly their hands fit together. Miles kept his hand there for a blistering ten seconds before he exited Tristan’s chambers quietly.

            “I love you,” Tristan whispered brokenly.

\--

            Tristan awoke the next morning with a half empty wine glass in one hand and dried tears on his face. He groaned, rolling ungracefully off of the bed before walking over to the water basin his servants left him. After splashing some water on his face, he changed into fresh clothes and opted to skip breakfast for a walk in the gardens instead.

            After dallying among the fresh-colored posies and green-as-the-Prince’s-eyes grass, he sat a bench and cracked open _1001 Arabian Nights_. He lost himself in the adventure before someone cleared his throat, causing Tristan to glance up at the intruder.

            Commander Brent’s serious face appeared in front of him. “Duke of Milligan,” he bowed.

            “Commander Brent,” Tristan nodded. “What brings you out here?”

            “We have been looking for you all morning. You were not at breakfast, and the King sent me to find you.”

            “That’s…generous of him,” Tristan remarked, bookmarking his page. “What is the problem?”       

            The commander grimaced. “The King will not say until we are all there. But judging by his tone, it is not pleasant.” He grabbed Tristan’s hand—the same one Miles had touched just hours before.

            Tristan jerked his hand back, causing Commander Brent to nearly fall forward. He cleared his throat. “I apologize, Commander Brent, for delaying the meeting.” He stood and gestured towards the castle. “Shall we?”

\--

            The two men entered the throne room and stood among the other nobles.

            “I hope he isn’t backing out of the war. Rivas has had it out for us for decades!” General Tiny (who, contrary to his name, was actually very tall) hissed quietly.

            “I doubt that, my friend,” Commander Brent whispered back. “The King loves war more than he loves women. Power attracts him.”

            “Do you think his son will make the same mistake?” Tristan asked.

            Commander Brent shrugged. “I say it is too early for him to take the throne, but from what I saw at last night’s dinner, he can make a fine king.”

            “I do not like him,” the gruff general spoke back, crossing his arms. “Privileged snob—thinks he can run off whenever he wants to. We cannot have a king like that.”

            “He was just a child,” Tristan defended. “He is not like that anymore.”

            The general and commander faced him with equally curious expressions. “How would you know?” the general spoke up.

            Tristan fumbled for a lie. “Just a mere observation,” he answered before the King burst into the throne door, following by the rest of the royal family. The King and Queen ascended to their thrones while their children stood dutifully by their sides with blank faces.

            “We have a traitor among us,” the King addressed the court. The nobles whispered among themselves until the King held up a hand. “Close your mouths.” Five seconds later, it was completely silent. “Before the solider succumbed to his injures, he informed me someone had gone ahead of our men and warned the Rivas. After receiving an account of the battle from a Rivas farmer,” the King jerked his chin towards a dirt-stained man in the back of the room, “we have concluded the traitor is in this very room. And I intend to find out who you are and have you killed for treason.”

            “Unless,” the Queen spoke up, her voice womanly and lulling, “someone steps up and confesses. Or if anyone possesses any information pertaining to the traitor?”

            The court exchanged anxious glances.

            The Queen’s soft face contorted into an angry snarl. “All right, if no one steps forward, we will find out anyways. And your actions will be held accountable—“

            “General Tiny,” the King beckoned.

            The general gulped nervously, but stepped forward. He bowed respectfully. “Yes, your Grace?”

            He eyed the general. “Take your troops into the nearby towns and villages. Await my messages. Unless someone confesses or comes to me with valuable information, I will have no choice but to burn your homes down.”

            The court gasped at the King’s words. A collection of “your Majesty” and “your Grace” rose from the crowd, causing the King to stand up.

            “My word stands,” he shouted over the crowd before exiting the throne room, slamming both of grand doors behind him.

            “What are we going to do?” Tristan found himself asking the commander.

            “…I have no idea,” he admitted, “but I have a feeling the King will have more than one war on his hands soon.”

            Tristan gulped before lowering his voice. “A civil war?” he concluded.

            The commander nodded grimly. “Yes. And no one in this court will be safe…not even the royal family.”

\--

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. I had to split this chapter into two, thus extending the story. I estimate the story has three chapters more.

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly have no idea where the idea for this story came from. I guess I'm been reading too many royalty based novels. This will probably only last three or four chapters.


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